Twenty three Months.  That’s how long it had been since my husband fucked me.  Almost 100 weeks!  Was it any wonder I strayed?

 

It was a Wednesday.  I remember because it was Date Night.  Which was just my excuse to make Paul stay home in the hopes of arousing our long dormant sex life.  I’d made an extra effort with the aphrodisiacs: a fruity Rioja, smooth avocado & prawns to start, silky salmon en croute, sensual cheese, and homemade Pavlova dripping with cream and passion fruit.  When he came through the door, his eyes weary and his Armani suit a little rumpled, I had hoped to put a smile on his face.  Black heels, sheer stockings, suspenders, lacy French knickers, black basque trimmed in red velvet. I was feeling hot.

 

I’d turned myself on getting dressed, as I inspected myself in the mirror.  My 5’6” frame is leggy and curvy, with DDs which barely squeezed into the tight basque.  I liked how they felt; soft and firmly plump as they sat to attention.  It was easy to pop one out and toy with the nipple, which rose instantly to my touch.  I slipped the straps off my shoulders and set the other one free.  White skin and dark nipples.  I squeezed them, enjoying the spasm of pain, and my womanhood twinged in response.  I could feel myself getting wet and couldn’t resist having a quick play. 

 

I watched my reflection as I pulled my panties to the side.  My lips were smooth beneath my trimmed bush, and already slick.  I slid my finger between them, avoiding my clit.  Not yet.  I enjoyed the feeling of my own warmth but wasn’t surprised at the wetness.  I have always been horny.  I masturbate twice daily, without fail.  Often with Paul snoring softly beside me, oblivious.  He had never seen me as I was that day, stood in my heels and suspenders in front of our door sized mirror, one finger slipping into my wet pussy and the other hand squeezing my breast.  I wondered what would he think?  Would he be shocked?  Or would he join in?  Not likely.  But the thought turned me on nonetheless and suddenly I found myself throwing myself onto the bed and sinking two fingers deep into my horny hole.  My other hand glided down my torso, over my belly, and began to pinch my clit.  It was slippery so my fingers kept sliding off, making the sensation come and go.  It was exquisite!  My eyes found the clock and it was minutes before Paul would be home.  I squeezed harder, fingered deeper, curling my fingers to rub my g-spot.  In my mind I was being fucked; a thick cock deep inside me, wanting me.  There was no face to the man; all that mattered was that he was screwing me.  I came with a gasp to the sound of tyres crunching on gravel. 

 

There was no time to clean myself up.  I yanked my panties back into position and immediately felt them begin to soak up my juice.  As I tottered downstairs I could feel how wet they were.  My pussy lips were slipping over my sensitive clit, keeping me horny.  I remembered to squeeze my breasts back into my lingerie just as Paul opened the door.  He found me at the foot of the stairs, flushed and horny.  My fingers were still damp.  I wanted him to take me then, hard against the front door or bent over the steps.  But he didn’t.  He asked what was for dinner, and what on earth was I wearing?

 

My orgasm had mellowed me, thankfully for him.  So I led him to our elegant dining room, which I had already laid out with the best silverware and candles.  He made no further comment about my attire and I dutifully fed him my feast.  It had taken me the better part of 6 hours to prepare, and he ate it as he would have beans on toast.  I could feel my blood boiling as I watched him munching in silence, his eyes on his newspaper.  As he swallowed the last of his stilton I decided the time had come.  I stood and approached him, a swagger to my hips which was helped by my 5” heels.  I stood beside him, my legs pressing into his, my breasts brushing his shoulder.  He looked at me with a ‘what do you want?’ glance.

 

‘Are you ready for dessert?’

 

I lifted one leg and placed my foot between his thighs, resting on his chair and forcing his legs apart.  In my mind this would be the part when he bit into my stockings and tore at them with his teeth as his fingers slid up my inner thigh and burrowed beneath my lacy underwear.

 

‘What are you doing, Dear?  Where’s the Pavlova?  Did you ruin it again?  You know I don’t like limp meringue.’

 

Fury raged in me, but I smiled sweetly.  ‘That’s exactly how I feel about your limp dick, Dear.’

 

I grabbed my coat and strode from the house.  My desire was unsatisfied and I yearned for pleasure.  I was determined to find it.